Avenoir
by REBELS AGAINST GOD
Summary: Patient #0117—Gray Fullbuster—is one of the few thousand left surviving, battling amnesia and trauma as he is confined to a research facility for further investigation on the apocalypse. Memories of friends and halcyon days and her start to resurface. But what happens when darker secrets start to be revealed, he remembers what truly happened, and madness begins to eat him alive?
1. prologue

.: **ᴀᴠᴇɴᴏɪʀ** :.  
[ _REBELS AGAINST GOD_ ]

—prologue—

* * *

 **avenoir**  
 _ **n.**_  
 **the desire that memory could flow backward**

* * *

he walks in.

The front door—worn, torn, age-washed—tries to inch back to its original place but stops short. It is left slightly ajar in the sudden wake of him forcefully thrusting it open, almost tearing apart the flimsy, peeling wooden opening.

Nothing is left untouched in the face of calamity.

Propelled by something (was it nostalgia, or curiosity, or the dark gut-wrenching intuition that leads you towards a light, only to let you know you've been delusional the entire time?), the young man steps further inside, broken wooden beams and fractured windowpanes snapping, crunching, finally disturbed, under his heavy coal-black boots.

Picturesque in the reminiscence of tragedy, it almost is.

He instinctively reaches for the wall, brushes his calloused fingertips against the crusty, stripped off paint, feels for the light switch, until he halts abruptly.

A veil of dust and ashes delicately conceals the ruins. Ground littered with fallen planks and chunks of brick, cement, the grime of catastrophe. Old boxes that were crushed oh so easily in the presence of what has caused all this destruction. A lone light bulb, broken and dysfunctional, hangs from the ceiling above what used to be a table, all sturdy and glossy and stable, now only some splintered arrows of wood.

The man looks at the crippled interior and sees himself, imagining a little boy, with messy raven hair, bounding down the staircase with a one-hand grip on the railing and a smile—genuine, warm, like those summer sunsets—on his lips. He looks to the demolished windows and sees her eyes in the disintegrated panes, sees her blue dress in the rippling curtains, hears her petal-delicate words and giggles as the loose window frame rocks in the breeze, feels _her_ everywhere he turns.

 _It's amazing how memory can alter things that never were,_ he muses right then.

And as violently as he fights against it, he knows (solidly and aching) that little boy is no more, and so is she.

He skims by the different rooms blandly—trudging along what was the hallway with the roof crashing down—most of which are presented to him with the same demolition as the previous one, until he comes to a standstill in front of the third door down the hall. His bedroom. The door is shut tightly, one of the only doors still intact. He leans all his weight on the now-fragile wood and pushes, almost expecting it to break quickly, to no avail. Something—something heavy—is blocking it from the other side. And he remembers why, clear, desolate, and remorseful.

 _What can't be unseen is best avoided. What can't be forgotten is best never learned of._

 _If only I knew either._

He advances outside and rounds to the back of the house, taking half a second to take in the exterior of the structure that once looked so grand and beautiful and safe, way beyond dilapidated, already crumbling and about to vanish into the ruins that were once homes. There's a tall, gnarled tree in the back.

 _A young boy used to climb to his bedroom from here, just to make it harder. Just for fun,_ the man remembers. He glances up. _And a girl used to follow him._

A few branches are missing, leaving jutting, splintered wood where they broke off (from what, who knows). Cinders clung to the bark. A dead bird hangs from the top by its plucked wings, dangling, lifeless, ominous. He examines it up and down before heaving himself up on the first branch.

 _I can still make it._

A large gap between his foothold and the highest windowsill. Without hesitation, he leaps.

It's the one room he recalls clearest. It's the one room where it happened.

 _Just like back then._

A snap in his head. Puzzle pieces into place. Memories conjuring themselves up, like a little sailboat out of the storm. He jumps down from the ledge of the windowsill and releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He can almost picture her again, sitting on his bed, looking at him, saccharine smile on blushing cheeks with lapis eyes, before all of this ever happened.

There's an envelope on his bed, half-hidden under the blankets that turned to soot.

And in the face of adversity and sorrow, in the face of _him_ , he notices—heart that was frozen for so long pounding, fingernails digging into his clammy palms—how it is the one thing left flawless.

The raven-haired man tenderly picks it up, caresses the envelope with his thumb—one, two feather-like strokes—until he finally gathers up the courage to slowly drag a frail shard of glass across the top, slip out the long letter (still new and clean as he imagines her writing it years ago in that elegant cursive of hers, still melodious and golden as he remembers her laugh) and he starts reading:

 _Dear Gray-sama,_

(He smiles—faint, rueful, wistful—tears nearly welling up. And he envisions her doing the same, somewhere, sometime else.)

 _It's been a while, hasn't it?_

 _Juvia hopes you are doing well…_

* * *

 **A/N:** **I don't generally like A/Ns so don't expect a lot of these but… important(ish) note, y'all? c:**

 **Before I get any Capitalization Nazis (apparently that's a thing now, people, observe) doting on me, please excuse the lack of capitalization in the first "he" because that is done on purpose as you will find out later—if you decide to stick with my crap writing, that is.**

 **This story is a post-apocalyptic/dystopian AU, and can be labelled into many genres (including angst, friendship, hurt/comfort, romance, tragedy) which I couldn't fit all of them in, but for any of you who only like sweet, fluffy, happy stories, this might not be perfect for you.**

 **Reviews are always extremely appreciated. hinthinthint**

 **I love you all! ;)**


	2. 001 : two names and a mission

.: **ᴀᴠᴇɴᴏɪʀ** :.  
[ _REBELS AGAINST GOD_ ]

—001 : two names and a mission—

* * *

"Patient #0117."

The broadcast buzzes loudly and clearly through the building, bouncing off the smooth, all-too-perfect ghostly white walls of the tunneling interior.

"Patient #0117, report to headquarters."

Nothing was out of place. Nothing seemed wrong. The dead air was flawless in the most chilling sense.

"I repeat: Patient #0117, please report to headquarters immediately."

Once again, nothing stirred. Faulty was painted all over the vitreous ceilings.

After some noiseless moments, a slender, middle-aged woman lowers the microphone from her mouth and turned to the older man behind her in the small control room—somber eyes and stiff, robotic movements.

"It appears Patient #0117 is not present," she explains, frigid eyes scanning the many monitors (shining in the musky dark) in front of her.

"Already? What a foolish child." He suppresses a yawn and watched silently from the shadows, disinterest sparking from every lazed little action. "Send the guards."

A siren suddenly explodes with its flashing light and the calm speakers were replaced with a blaring racket. Rooms of red-washed walls.

The woman raises the microphone up to her lips again, her voice nothing but monotone.

"Hunt him down."

* * *

 _Run_ , something was telling him.

His white, almost hospital-like gown, flows out behind him as the young man felt his sharp, clacking footsteps echo like unnatural heartbeats across the smooth, shiny floor.

 _But where to?_

Lost and wrapped in a dazed coat of amnesia, he could only rely on that voice in the back of his head (was it his?) to guide him through a series of mazes that this facility seemed to sport. No matter how fast he runs, the walls seemed to follow him. No matter where he went, he ends up in the same place he started at.

In the midst of franticness, he almost appreciates the cleverness of the interior design. How everything was white, built in a tunnel-like structure. It was confusing. After a short while he didn't know where he was going anymore. It was to purposely stop people from escaping, he realized with a pang of eeriness.

The jet-black-haired man almost expects the storming racket that suddenly replaced the dead silence. His feet didn't stop as the footsteps echoed louder behind him all of a sudden. No, not echoes…

 _Guards._ He clenches his teeth, glancing over his shoulder. _Wonderful._

His heart races faster as he realized those _things_ , whatever was pursuing him, weren't human at all. He could make out slitted eyes that glinted white-blue. He could make out the faint outline of a robot-like system trapped under a perfectly white, almost-human skin.

He found it strange how alone he felt, ruling out those hyper realistic robots hot on his tail. It almost reached a level of paranoia.

 _I can't be the only one…_

A sharp swerve around a sudden corner made him slip. It happened so quickly that he didn't even process what was happening before his world slants to one side, he feels a dreaded rush, and before he knew it, he crashes side-first on the cold ground.

The patient tries to heave himself up, fumbling, breaths short and hitching. There was nothing to grasp. They were getting closer, and the first thought was that he was going to die.

 _I can't… I have to… find…_

All of a sudden, he registers a faint sting in his arm. A chill seemed to spread into his veins. He struggles still, limp and tired now. A cold arm slithers around him.

Then his eyelids flutter close.

* * *

It's bright. Blindingly bright.

Not the bright at the end of the tunnel; the relieving, warm kind that tells you you're there, you've made it, and you're safe. It was a different bright. The chilling, unfriendly kind that makes you shiver not because it's cold, but because it reminds you you've woken up, you're alive, and you can't escape into your dreams again.

"You're awake," a calm voice remarks.

Groggily, the young man tries to sit up until he realized his legs were bound together to the large white chair he sat on. He grunts and scowls in irritation, struggling uselessly. He notices the robots guarding whatever entrance this small room had.

The older man, dressed in neat black clothes and a white mask, smiles behind the cover. "Resisting is futile, Patient #0117. We worked so hard for the wonderful hospitality you'll be receiving here, after all. Our guards will not harm you either."

The patient remembers the stinging from earlier. He rolls up his sleeve to inspect what has caused it, but no markings were present.

"They did something to me. I felt – "

"Ah yes, you were fleeing and opposing, and so we had them inject something to calm you down." He looks over at the younger man's look of disdain. "It is not harmful, if that's what you're worried about."

The raven-haired man's obstinate dark eyes peeked out from under his bangs. "W-Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"

"Will knowing help you?" the other man—a head at this facility, perhaps—replies in his smooth tone, absently staring at the flawless white walls like they were extremely interesting. "I believe you should learn more about yourself before asking questions about me."

"I know about myself already." The patient grimaces at his own clear lie.

A half-hearted, nearly mocking chuckle. "Really now? Just how much do you remember, I wonder?"

The patient doesn't answer. Two names and a mission is all he knows. _Gray_. That's him. _Juvia_. That's who he needs to find.

 _But why?_

"And since you're wondering," he continues, not interested in whatever answer the patient was going to conjure up, snapping Gray out of his thoughts, "I was not the one who brought you here. You were one of the only survivors of an apocalyptic situation that affected Fiore and all the surrounding countries. Of the millions, there were around ten thousand estimated alive. This research facility only holds some of them."

 _I survived? I don't remember anything…_ "Are you a survivor too, then?"

"Let's not focus on me, shall we?" The robots' stares bore into Gray. The room seemed to get tighter and colder with each passing heartbeat. "We need to learn more about what really happened and the effect it has on the survivors, or rather, victims. You will be interrogated, but think not of yourself as a test subject, and more as a welcomed guest."

The raven-haired man stares down at his fingers blandly, distastefully. He then looks up to meet the frigid, judgemental eyes of the older man with an equally icy gaze.

"What about my past?" He hates how his voice wavers.

A bitter chuckle from the man, coated in mock sympathy. "You're under amnesia, Patient #0117. You may experience recollections of your past, one memory at a time. We'll monitor your mind and actions. Don't feel the need to act."

"And why should I cooperate with you bastards? How should I trust what you're up to?" Gray hisses, kicking his legs more violently. His exasperation is rising. Whatever was binding him seemed indestructible.

"I certainly understand how you feel. Lost, confused, anxious. Scared, even." Gray breathes heavily through his gritted teeth, trying to hide the fear under annoyance and anger. "How about this: I'll give you a deal. You help us, and—"

Gray's heartbeat quickens, a drumming in the quiet air. He swears he can feel the man smile sourly at him from underneath his white mask.

"—We will help you find Juvia."

* * *

 **A/N: I AM SO SORRY FORGIVE ME CHILDREN ;_;**

 **From a lot of work and pressure to writer's block on how this story will progress to personal problems, I will admit I kind of forgot about this story for a bit. But I promise I won't give up on it. Now that school's almost over, I hope my updates will be much quicker and more regular. :)**

 **Arigato, and reviews are much much appreciated! c:**


	3. 002 : seven days since

.: **ᴀᴠᴇɴᴏɪʀ** :.  
[ _REBELS AGAINST GOD_ ]

—002 : seven days since—

* * *

Six days had passed since the day he made the deal.

Gray sits in his compartment, a makeshift jail cell, stripped away of the rusted bars and dank, grim interior. The inside was bright, smooth walls gleaming white. No painted bricks or cement slabs to carve tallies into. To etch there scribbly lines, indicating how many days he had survived so far. Quite spacious. It includes a lot of what the young man remembers was in his house, before the incident happened.

He remembers things like vintage skirts with floral patterns. Blue.

(But it didn't have the fragrant scent of her newly-washed old clothes that were stacked away in the drawers, fading away piece by piece.)

Things like gold-and-brown picture frames and leaves that lean up to kiss the summer sky.

(Not the slightly scratched picture of them—shakily taken but he treasures it, always—with his arm around her and her blue dress and that big sycamore tree in the back.)

Stirring blankets. Frail sunshine that threatened to seep through closed curtains.

(Not her saccharine smile that used to greet him every morning.

It didn't have everything he needs.)

The meals were edible, and that was all. Just enough so he could stay alive. That seems to be all they want.

Gray notices the tracker clipped tightly to his left ankle. He looks up at the silvery-white light on the ceiling. He didn't like it. He missed the morning light that tried to pry open his eyelids while he buried himself deeper into the covers, into her.

 _Just who is she to me?_

And he hates how he has finished the puzzle already, but there's one piece left. One piece off to the side, and it didn't fit anywhere.

 _Who was I to her…?_

* * *

"Greetings, Patient #0117."

He dreams of the smell of crepes—a whiff of them being slightly burnt. He dreams of panes of sky, behind a cloudy window. He dreams of…

"Patient #0117."

Gray reluctantly opens his eyes at the irritated tone. He groggily scowls at whoever intruded on him. A dark figure stands outside his compartment, dressed in white with a helmet-like object obstructing most of her head and face. He can make out brown eyes that look almost warm under the icy light.

 _Almost._

"Patient #0117, you may follow me," the young woman instructs, voice unwavering monotone, slightly distorted through an altering machine it seemed, but laced with something different. Hints of the same thing the man in the mask had when he spoke. Human.

The raven-haired man slams his hand on the side of his bed and heaves himself up. "And who the hell are you?"

She remains calm, albeit not doing a very good job of hiding her annoyance. That annoyance made Gray feel a flutter of something he didn't think he would—relief in this one-dimensional world.

"A mentor. I'm taking care of you and monitoring you from now on." Her dark cocoa eyes flashed coldly under the dark grey face shield. "Mostly monitoring."

Gray scoffs and turns away. "I don't need a mentor. Run off."

She doesn't flinch. "Commander's orders."

"Then tell your commander that these are the patient's orders." Gray eyes her through his slitted peripheral vision.

 _Stubborn one_ , she thinks, her patience quickly erupting into sparks, almost as if flames were radiating from her body.

"You _will_ cooperate, or else." The woman lifts her chin slightly and stares down at him assertively. "Or do you not take your promise to heart?"

 _How does she know about the deal?_ Gray's eyes widen and frost spreads in his veins. _Just who is this person? Another guard?_

"Well, Miss Mentor Lady," the raven-haired man spins around and marches towards her, "has anyone told you it's not polite for a stranger to just charge in and interrupt someone and expect them to go with you?"

She stands there, still and unwavering with her arms across her chest. He can sense the aggravation. "You are the lesser one, and the inferior will abide by the superior's orders."

 _She's hiding it quite well,_ Gray remarks in his mind, his white coat tied lazily around his waist, his chiseled abs well-defined under the heavily contrasted light. _But not well enough._

"I have enough respect for myself not to," the young man chuckles frigidly. "What am I to you people, an object?"

"Patients are exactly that." She advances nearer. "Masked under a politer name, sure, but you are nothing but a test subject. Something kept alive long enough to give us the answers we need. I have power over you and I can and will go to extreme measures to—"

All of a sudden, he lashes out, swift and skilled movements through clenched teeth and dark eyes. His fist, however, never ends up making contact with the suit-clad woman.

He feels a hand, delicate but powerful, impact his own closed one in mid-air. He sees her cocoa eyes, indifferent and collected. What happens next—his body being spun around, his arms twisted violently behind his back, being pushed into the wall with a force from someone he previously underestimated and pinned for at least ten seconds—was an all-too-quick blur.

Her face is masked but it is as if his hairs were standing up from a chillingly hot breath on his neck.

She says it in a this-is-the-last-time way: "Patient #0117, you may follow me."

So he does. He walks behind her as she leads him out, out of his jail cell and out of the maze structure he was now forced to call home, heading towards the ruins of towns and cities that once were, just a stubborn puppy too headstrong to admit anything happened.

"Patient #0117—"

"You can call me Gray," he murmurs abruptly, gaze drifting off lazily to the side.

The young woman stops, split-second halt. She glances back, only the span of one heartbeat, and then continues walking. He almost doesn't catch it.

 _Almost._

"You may call me Erza, then."

* * *

Seven days had passed since the day he made the deal.

They had asked him.

He knew everyone was lying to him.

And he said "yes".


End file.
